GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1072: BILLY THE KID

 

I recently got MGM+ again because FROM has a new season. I'm all caught up now. and I'm canceling after the season finale. But they also have BILLY THE KID, and I just watched the final season. (I also noticed they have the show, 12 MONKEYS. I lost cable before the final season aired, so I'm finally getting to watch that. I'll probably write about that experience at some point soon, because it's a little bizarre for me.)

When I first started watching BILLY THE KID, I was pleasantly surprised to see it was written by Michael Hirst. I love his historical shows, like The Tudors and Vikings. Now that he's turned his attention to one of my favorite western outlaws? I was all in.

And I watched as it did its best to distance itself from the Young Guns movies. I can't tell you how much I love those two flicks. But because they're such an important part of the legend, this show needs to steer the boat its own way.

Hirst obviously loves history, but he's not beholden to it. If it comes down to a decision between what really happened (or at least the agreed upon facts) and what makes more sense for the story, he will always go with the latter, never the former. So you can't watch his stuff and expect an accurate history lesson, but he gets the spirit of history rather than the letter.

So the whole time I watched this show, my biggest question was, is he going to go the Brushy Bill route? If you don't know, back in the 'Fifties, an old man named Brushy Bill Roberts claimed to be Billy the Kid, that Pat Garrett hadn't killed him, and that he'd been keeping a low profile for decades. He had a lot of scars that line up with injuries Billy the Kid was known to have had. There were still a few Old West outlaws alive at the time, and when they trotted Brushy Bill out in front of them, they more or less agreed: this really was Billy the Kid. But in an age where DNA testing didn't exist, and the actual location of Billy the Kid's corpse was unknown, it couldn't be definitively proved.

Here there be spoilers. If you're going to watch the show, you'd best stop here. If you've seen it, or you don't give a fuck, please continue.

After Pat Garrett shoots Billy and leaves, Billy still breathes, and a friend rushes to get him out of there. I thought, YES! They're doing Brushy Bill! Because I believe that he really was Billy the Kid. I think that's legitimately part of the story.

But Hirst actually *doesn't* do Brushy Bill. He takes a much bigger swing at history. Like, I'm talking a Babe Ruth kind of swing.

Because later, after Billy is nursed back to health, HE GOES BACK TO GET REVENGE ON PAT GARRETT. He flat out guns Garrett down, and that's it.

Holy fuck, that is huge. It then occurred to me that I actually didn't know how Pat Garrett died. I never had much interest in the guy, although I tend to agree with Young Guns 2, that Garrett was in on Billy faking his death. So I looked it up, and Garrett died under mysterious circumstances, much like the real life Johnny Ringo. In fact, it's very similar to the swing Tombstone takes when it suggests that Doc Holliday killed Johnny Ringo. I've read up on the subject, and the popular belief is that he committed suicide. I think that's the case. But we don't know for sure, just like we don't know who actually killed Garrett.

Could it have been Billy the Kid? If you believe the Brushy Bill story, like I do, then it's within the realm of possibility.

But then Hirst follows it with Billy going up against Thomas Catron, the local politician that was hellbent on eliminating Billy and his Regulators. In the series finale he shoots Catron in the head, which simply did not happen. Catron went on to become a US Senator and died in 1921. But that is par for the Hirst course. It made for a good ending to the series, something that ties up all the loose threads but wasn't necessarily true.

I'm certain that, if he went on for another episode, he would have depicted Brushy Bill. In the end Billy literally--and I mean LITERALLY, not figuratively as many people use that word today--rides off into the sunset with his wife and kid.

That last episode was good. It wrapped up everything. But I don't think it was great, which is also par for the Hirst course EXCEPT FOR THE TUDORS. That show had a final episode that was awe-inspiringly beautiful, one of those moments that takes your breath away. The only reasonable response is to stare in astonishment and silence.

BILLY THE KID was a lot of fun. I'd recommend it.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #505: VISITING GRAMPS POST DETOX

You and me both, Billy. You and me both.

 Today marks the 31st day since my last drink. A whole month! Holy shit! And it's not February on a non-Leap Year, either. It's like a July or a December. The last time I did something like that was probably 15 years ago. I've been drunk almost every day since.

That means yesterday was Day 30. How did I celebrate? I went to a liquor store and a bar.

*record scratch*

Why would I do that? Three reasons. The first covers both scenarios. Like Billy the Kid in Young Guns, I believe in testing myself every day. How am I supposed to stay away from booze in a world where booze surrounds me? I have to be used to it. If I can't accept that fact, then I might as well drink myself silly again. I didn't even think of getting something to drink at either place. Didn't even enter my mind.

The second reason applies to the bar. My aunt is in town, and she wanted to take me to lunch. She had her dog with her, and Fitz's Pub is pet friendly. We sat outside, but I went in to see if it was OK to do so. I spoke with the bartender, surrounded by glittering bottles of amber fluid, and I got permission and walked back out. Again, I didn't have any cravings or urges. Easy going.

The third reason is the biggest, though, at least for me. Longtime readers remember that whenever I visit my grandfather's grave I bring along two airplane bottles of Jim Beam, his favorite whiskey. I would pour one into the ground for him, and I would drink the other myself. It has been tradition for as long as my grandfather has been dead.

Just because I'm on the wagon doesn't mean Gramps has to suffer. So I went to the liquor store and bought one airplane bottle. Any other time I would have been salivating for a handle of booze even before I so much as touched the door handle outside. Once again, I didn't think of getting something for myself. Not even one iota. I got that airplane bottle and pocketed it and headed for the cemetery.

I told myself that I would at least smell it when I took the top off. Just to see my own reaction. They say that if you're away from hard liquor for a while, you don't even like the smell of it, and I wanted to see for myself.

So I visited with Gramps. This was the first time visiting Grandma since she passed, as she and her mom are buried on the same plot with Gramps. After spending some time with them I twisted off the top and poured it down onto Gramps's side of the grave. Only later, as I was throwing out the empty bottle, did I realize that I'd forgotten to smell the whiskey. So I never did find out if I'm repulsed by the smell yet.

I doubt it. Most alcoholics will say they don't even like the taste of liquor. They just drink it for the effect. I'm different, though. I revel in the taste of whiskey. Anyone who has ever had a few with me knows that I don't grimace when I take down a shot, and I will sometimes swish it around in my mouth before swallowing. For maximum effect, of course.

I'm sure I'll find out the next time I visit Gramps. If I remember to take a sniff.